


Flickering Fragments of Starlight

by MissArchie



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Crimson Flower Path, Espionage, Gen, I love him, Ignatz is a badass, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Political Alliances, Political Consequences, Prelude to an Epic Disaster, Prisoner of War, Slow Burn, Slowest Burn, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissArchie/pseuds/MissArchie
Summary: "As Edelgard works to reorganize the army after merging with Alliance troops, she receives an urgent message from Duke Goneril, whose forces guard Fodlan's Locket..."The call was answered with gusto. While it seemed that some kind of dreadful invasion from a mighty Eastern nation would divert the Black Eagle Strike Force's war efforts, it was little more than an elaborate sport, an inside game played between warriors of one nation yet known to Fodlan, and another nation that was slowly submitting to the Adrestian Empire's grip. The game is played and won by the Force, and a far-off dream of a treaty with a nation not under the Goddess' sway is drafted in the back of Edelgard's mind.In time, that treaty would become a pipe dream, and the game the Almyrans played would become its very last one.Crimson Flower route AU.
Relationships: Judith von Daphnel/Nader, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	1. I: Insurmountable (Pegasus Moon, 1185)

**Author's Note:**

> What do you get when you combine your frustration with the Crimson Flower route's lack of political consequences, a lack of Claude and Almyra lore, and a bunch of espionage novels for inspiration? You get this.
> 
> I am a nursing school student and not much of a writer, so updates for this will be kind of spotty. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this for what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In This Chapter: A rouse is put in place, and an unexpected alliance is made.

_**Pegasus Moon** _

_**Imperial Year 1185**_

_**Beneath Fodlan’s Locket** _

Miracle of miracles, the plan went off without a hitch.

And the timing was graciously swift to boot. Nader did not think that poisoning a water source would take hold this quickly, but it did. The Adrestian soldiers stationed at Fodlan's Locket were quick to utilize the water source that swam through the Throat, which was fairly pristine and carefully managed compared to their fatherland's - They made it for tea, they washed themselves and their steeds with it, they quenched their thirst with it. How sinful that it was currently being reduced to this atrocious, toxic state.

As Nader carefully made his way underground through a hidden sluice gate - a tidbit of knowledge gifted to him by the great Daphnel spy network - the black-swathed young woman who served as his companion for this mission briefly said a prayer foreign to Fodlan for the poor water source. It certainly deserved it more than these pigs, she rationalized.

"Wajida," Nader whispered. "Sweet daughter of mine. Hurry up."

She complied, pulling up the cloth that served as her face mask and tightening the silver-y scarf that covered most of her hair. Thanks to the dim sunrise, she managed to stay mostly undetected in the bright green underbrush. 

If one of Holst Goneril's guardsmen noticed her, they opted to ignore her.

Nader sighed in awe at the sight of the dark cerulean walls that lined the passage he and his daughter stepped into. While his young master's praises for his motherland were infrequent, he could see why he found this a source of envy. Most areas in Almyra had a robust series of canals for plumbing and water transport, all of them older than Fodlan itself, but due to the seasonal nature of many of its major rivers, construction was costly and a time-sink. What was done over a hundred feet down into Almyra's earth was done in a quarter of that here, thanks to the water held by Fodlan's Throat. 

Shame that only the Alliance had a system this robust. And shame that it was being tainted with arsenic.

The first sounds of retching rang in Nader's ears as he and Wajida took careful steps across the underground waterway. He knew that it was best to remain ignorant of just where and how the queen procured the arsenic used to poison the water, yet he could not help his curiosity. Nor could he help but ruminate that it was not from his poised, stern warrior of a father where Claude learned to craft his schemes and stratagems from - the guileless and craft came from his mother, and he took it to new heights courtesy of his miserable youth. Yet in spite of said youth, Claude's schemes were rarely as cruel or as overtly deadly as his mother's. If the young Lord Goneril's post-combat exchanges were anything to go by, neither the Duke whom Claude succeeded nor the queen's late brother Godfrey shared that deathly guile.

The circle of Fodlanese women he knew was fairly small, but perhaps he could feel justified in believing that Fodlan's cowardice was primarily held by its men. But then again, in light of what had happened barely hours ago...

"Father..."

Wajida gave an urgent tug at Nader's sleeve, pointing upward as the hysteria taking place above them grew louder.

_"It hurts...it hurts...!"_

_"Where in the hells is the medic!? What is...urgh-!"_

_"Oh, goddess...the smell...oh, oh shi-"_

Nader snapped out of his funk and began to quicken his pace, allowing for his quicker-footed daughter to take the lead. The soldiers stationed at the Locket began to descend into chaos in earnest, but father, daughter, and company had known well beforehand that reserves were likely in the wings. Even as a vestige of what it once was, Adrestia was still the largest and most powerful of Fodlan's three nations, and it had the might and war power to match. Through the efforts of its young Empress, the "vestige" aspect would soon be no more, as Nader and Wajida saw for themselves.

"General Holst's envoy is waiting for us at the end of this passage, Father. If we keep this pace, we'll reach his home within the next four hours or so."

Nader huffed in disbelief. "Four hours of crawling in this hellhole, huh..." He arched his back, softly groaning as burning muscle and weary bone stretched out of place. "I'm not as young as I used to be, kiddo. If I break something en route, it's on you."

"How convenient. You weren't grousing about your age when we were fighting the Empress' troops."

"Wajida..." He took a warning tone, unamused.

Whatever fatherly lecture he had summoned was quashed when he heard what seemed to be a latch's hinges opening.

"I'm going on ahead," Wajida whispered harshly, taking a running stance. "The map Judith gave you has spots for you to hide in if someone _does_ end up chasing us here."

"Leaving your old man in the dust, are ya?" Nader sighed, shaking his head. "Well, you're right in doing so. If someone's gonna make it and see this through, you're more than worthy of doing so. You're my daughter, after all."

Wajida grasped the cuff of her father's _chokha_ again, but tighter, feebler, as if she were a young girl once more.

"And _you're_ my father. I _will_ be seeing you on the other side, you hear me?" She whispered, her words harsh. "Who will the general share a drink with then, hm? Who, Father, if not you?"

Nader let out a laugh, more a gasping breath so as not to alert anyone who might be nearby. "Perhaps I might just be able to keep up with you after all."

The latch was fully opened. Shouts could be heard outside. Without another word, father and daughter sped off.

  
  


* * *

  
  


  
  


The Goneril Estate was teeming with as much life as an estate could have during war time. The few maids that remained put their all into keeping the building clean, from the dusting of the curtains to the cleaning of the rubble that was caused by devastating magicks, courtesy of the Empire's brutal efforts. Guard patrol was still active, although the recent news of the Alliance's downfall had put many of its good soldiers in a strange, foggy trance. The effects of the razing had reared their ugly head by the estate's doorstep, with the orphaned and the sick and the injured milling about. In an act of charity seemingly unbecoming of Fodlanese nobility, Holst Valentin Goneril, originally intended to be the future duke of his namesake territory, opened his doors to these lost and offered them whatever shelter he could. The Alliance Roundtable was no more, and the sole nobles left to their names were the man himself and Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, the latter having been forced to surrender his lands and his dignity due to Gloucster Territory's proximity to the Empire's border. Judith von Daphnel was at death's door, Margrave Edmund and Duke Ordelia were stripped of everything, Kupala was put under Imperial rule, the Eastern branch of the Church of Seiros was razed twice over, and Claude von Riegan had been captured, doomed for either a tortuously slow death or a regained life awash with great shame.

Holst was the sole flame of comfort the country had left, but he was but a lamp's flame on its last reserves of oil. That reality haunted him without end as he offered a cup of energizing mint tea to the weary young nun who had volunteered to tend to him. She thanked him by dabbing the sweat off his brow, a remnant of his battle with a particularly nasty bout of food poisoning.

Granted, he hadn't _intended_ to get sick to the point of shitting his guts out seven times a day. A cover needed to be convincing, sure, but fate apparently decided to be an ass the day he opted to consume those mushrooms...

"How are you faring today, Lord Goneril?" The nun asked, voice raspy from torment he dared not ask of.

"Much better, thank you." And not a minute too soon, as Holst had a vital appointment to keep. He took a breath and sat up firm, as if he were steeling himself for something. His stomach weakly gurgled, but the urge to rush to the chamber pot did not come. _“Finally.”_

“You seem as though you’re anticipating something, milord.”

Holst opened an eye, his gaze steeling at the curious nun. He glanced around, mindful soldier that he was, and leaned into the nun, voice barely a whisper. “I am, actually. Listen to me well.”

“M-Milo-”

“Shh.”

A hush sharply fell over the estate. Only the faintest chirping of the birds and the rustling of tree branches could be heard.

Creaking. Flushing. A resounding huff.

A distinct clinking of metal, soft and fluid like coins on a countertop.

The time had come.

Holst lightly grasped the nun by her habit’s collar, taking her by surprise. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Take whatever children are here or outside and take them to the cellars at once. Most of the staff and some guards will be joining you. And please be as _discreet_ about it as possible.”

He released her – she stumbled, stuck in a slight stupor. The footsteps drew ever closer, and the nun, catching wind of Holst’s implications, complied. She deftly rushed out of his quarters and began rounding the children as he asked, and he was glad.

It took not even five minutes for his intended to hide when Nader and Wajida were swiftly escorted in by the nondescript page boy that was under his employ. For the first time in weeks, Holst smiled.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Forgive us for the odd smell,” Nader huffed quietly, quickly toasting his great rival with the small glass of whiskey that Holst had somehow salvaged. Wajida also briefly toasted before returning to her perch on the windowsill, keeping a deft eye out for potential attackers. “Did you really have no other alternative for this poor old man, ya bastard?” He said in jest, lip upturned.

“If you’re a decrepit old man, then I’m a _poor widdle baby boy,”_ Holst playfully jeered, mockingly wiping imaginary tears from his face. It was a callback to his days as a student at Garreg Mach. “Weeeh! That's right! I'm a poor, delicate...erm...”

Before the Almyran duo could blink, the Duke’s false tears had turned true – and even then, briefly.

Perhaps the whiskey was more potent than they realized?

“...Lord Goneril?” Wajida carefully parsed.

“Forgive me,” the Duke sputtered, taking a moment to compose himself. “I was…someone, I was...”

It only took a minute for Nader to process the man’s sudden onset of sadness. The sight of Holst’s muted pink hair and the recent seizing of Derdiru made the man’s face soften in sympathy. Even one as proud and as enthralled with the thrill of battle as he was knew that the sting of loss could rend like any other wound.

“Do you need to mourn for her, my friend?” He lent the trembling man a comforting arm – no matter how much he composed himself, the trembling wouldn’t stop.

“T-There is – we have to, to - “

“The sun is not yet high, my good man, and in spite of everything, we are in the clear for now. Please weep, if you must.” He took the man into a fatherly embrace, and Wajida also offered comfort with her own hand. Together they comforted the sobbing general, whose precious sister was slain in battle not too long ago.

His sister was the very same woman that Nader’s pupil and liege had grown to befriend. Hilda was arguably the very first Fodlanese friend that Claude had made, and in the wake of his propensity for keeping people at arm’s length, Nader was grateful towards her. He saw her quite a few times – she was a little too saccharine, a little too lazy at times for his liking, but her prowesses with the axe and at hand-to-hand combat were something to behold, as were her aggressive negotiating skills. The Alliance had lost many good men and women recently, but the loss of both Hilda and several of Claude’s academy classmates – the freshly christened mercenary captain Leonie, Margrave Edmund’s daughter Marianne, and defectors Ingrid and Lindhart, the former of Faerghus and the latter of Adrestia – especially stung.

His liege did so adore to play keep-away with others, and yet he _still_ became too kind for his own good. It nearly cost him his life, it did.

The rocking and rubbing would soon soothe Holst’s weary spirit, and the tears finally subsided. He released himself from the Almyrans’ hold, and in place of his tears was a grimace Nader could only describe as righteous fury – a grimace he had seen Claude bear quite a few times.

“...Thank you, General Nader. Thank you, Miss Wajida. I believe it’s time we begin our discussion.”

* * *

“...That’s quite a gamble you took. Death would’ve overcome you if you kept eating all of that poison.” Nader took a long sip of the coarsely oxidized pine tea that he offered to Holst, an Almyran specialty. “And who’s to say that I or any other _Navpati_ or _Pasha_ worth his salt would’ve bargained with you?”

“I cannot speak for all of your people, but surely even those who scorned Duke Riegan for his heritage could have found worth in his exploits here?” Holst lightly countered, picking at cuticles. “That boy hopped over the throat to his motherland, a place he knew little about, with naught but a bow, a blade, and that brain of his. In a mere seven years’ time, he claimed his mother’s noble status, claimed knowledge of the land, and kept this feeble, young alliance as strong as it could when that damned woman set the land aflame.” His shoulders tensed, conviction showing. “He’s strong. Stronger than most. And as his lifelong retainer, you of all people should realize that.”

"You have me there, but...”

“Besides, my hunch about him proved true during the clash at Derdiru. I was able to witness the Almyran Navy’s entrance from the Locket. I saw the scores of wyverns, descending onto the field like hawks. None of that would’ve come to pass if your people still shunned him completely.”

“Perhaps.” Nader took another sip. “I’ve looked over him since he was a child. To be honest, when those reinforcements took to his command, I was in awe.” He glanced away, gazing out a broken window. “It was the same for his father when he first ascended Almyra’s throne – His Majesty also suffered in his own way, and had to use that kind of force to win our people’s respect. And honestly? It is perhaps because he is so strong - and perhaps because he is as Almyran as I am, in the end - that the people kneel for him at all. As a ruler, he is imperfect. And as a man and a father, well...” He sighed.

“My own father and the rest of the Roundtable’s nobles often claim that he kept trying to undo the trade negotiations and reforms that the previous king put in place, but anybody east of Garreg Mach knows that’s blatantly false. And to be honest, I believe we are fortunate that he somehow kept that promise when the war began five years ago. I would not have held it against him if he chose to stop trade and close the one door to his lands for good.” It was just scripture, but the word of the Seiros Tenants was taken to law to varying levels of strength by the three countries. As a result, trade from other nations needed to be done through Fodlanese proxies instead of direct, and it took a lot of craftiness for a foreign merchant to actually sell in the continent in person. It was an imperfect step, but it was still a step, and Holst let out a small smile at it. “Maybe I am naive, but I could perhaps find respect in this King...what is his name?”

“Arslan I. His full name is Arslan Selim Al-Khzir, _Padishah_ and first of his name. In the Fodlan tongue, _Padishah_ would mean something akin to ‘master king.’ He is the first to claim that title in generations, as his rule spurred great changes and expanded our eastern lands. I wonder if my young master will claim that title too...if we rescue him, that is.” He shook his head.

There it was. The purpose of their meeting. 

Nader was unsure of the outcome of that fateful battle. Many had wagered that Claude would die that day. Others banked on him being spared, likely because of the presence of one of his former professors from that military school he had enrolled in. It unnerved him how he still titled her as such, even though she was little more than the Empress' lap dog. 

Perhaps she was not quite that fervent for the mad Empress, considering that she and the rest of the Imperial Army questioned her choice in taking Claude prisoner. But no matter. Almyra could scorn its youngest prince all it wanted, but Claude was the King's favorite son, even if he did an atrocious job at displaying it. The nation's wrath was due upon them no matter what, but by capturing the prince, they could make their presence known across the continent well before planning a full-scale invasion. It was perfect.

“Actually, even with all Claude had done, my men suffered heavy losses that day. I’m fearful that even with the strength he’s displayed, my people will scorn him more than ever before. The loss of a nation and a kidnapping aren’t exactly the same as losing a border skirmish.” What Nader didn't mention was how the king would react in the wake of all this.

Nader and his fellow soldiers could brush off this battle until no memory of it remained. But the king and queen, after seven long years, finally caught wind of the full extent of what Claude had been doing in Leicester. When he initially fled Almyra, queen was disappointed in him then, and the king mocking yet fretful. Now they were bloodthirsty. 

Claude could've made a million and one contingency plans. He could not change his parents' attitudes towards him or their neighbor, even in light of more trade. His demon of a mother, especially...Nader grimaced at the thought of her, and worried.

Holst coughed, tea dripping down the scruff on his chin. He did not know what possessed him, but the mood became even more sour than before. Perhaps the old Almyran general could use a laugh.

“You know, it’s really amazing,” he said a little too loudly for comfort. “Not only did Duke Riegan do all the wonders that I just mentioned, but absolutely _nobody,_ and I mean _nobody,_ suspected that he was a goddess-damned _prince._ Hell, even his half-Almyran heritage flew _right_ over the heads of so many. Yeah, the Empire and the Kingdom may not know as well of your people as the Alliance does, but no one can hide their heritage completely – especially someone with his looks!” Wajida’s gesturing of her hand at her lips forced Holst to calm down. “I am still baffled to this day that both Count Gloucester and his fop of a son suspected nothing. Oh, and do you want to know what Dame Pinelli told me once she herself found out he was Almyran?”

“Dare I ask?”

“She said, ‘Are you sure about that? I just thought he tanned easily.’” Holst snickered.

“Are you serious!?” Nader guffawed. Wajida herself broke her silence, breaking down into a fit of giggles.

“Even my baby sister – may she rest in peace – had the audacity to not connect the dots. At the Officer’s Academy, both when I was there and when she was there, one thing they’d have us do is lead these battalions that the knights or the professors would pick themselves – good for practice in authority, and also good backup for the more dangerous missions the Archbishop gave us, you see. During my year, I had a very small contingent of Almyran mercs back me up several times. And Hildy? She had an even bigger one, half a company’s worth at least.”

“Still nothing?” Nader gasped, still chuckling. “Even with our skin, even with our beards, even with the younger ones and their braids, nothing?”

“Flew right over her head.” He swept his hand over his head, mimicking his statement.

“Heh...truly amazing, for all the wrong reasons,” Wajida spoke at last, breaking concentration for a mere moment.

A small burst of cheer bought Nader back to the light. It would be brief, but his grievances were forgotten at that moment.

“...Do you think we can save him?” He asked softly. “This is quite the gambit we’re attempting to make, you know. From your poisoning at the outset too.” He downed the rest of his whiskey. "And that aside, you are aware that my people, your sworn enemies, will try to pierce Fodlan's Locket this time? The Great Lord of Wisdom himself is the only one who knows just what Almyra will do in light of all of this. They may disregard our deceit."

Holst sighed. "...I know. I've been sparring with that thought for quite a few nights now."

"And you're still going to ally with us."

"Yes," said Holst, resolute once again. "I may not truly know your home, but after everything that's happened here, knowing what Adrestia wants...I would honestly not be wholly angry if your king himself decides to invade. The Empire is an oppressive, cruel beast, and the Empress is no better, despite her claims."

"I may be a _Pasha,_ but I cannot determine or decide what the king and other nobles would do if the invasion were successful," said Nader. "Who knows if he will offer you anything beneficial for your people."

"I am willing to risk that."

"...You're mad."

"Aren't we all."

"You want revenge for your sister."

"And Claude is your master, _and_ the Empire beat you in battle twice within two moons. Isn't it the same for you?"

"He has a point, Father," Wajida bitterly added, coming from a personal place.

Nader took a deep breath, peeved that he was right. Revenge was an awful thing that clung.

"Leicester as we know it may be gone, but Claude was wrong - we still have our pride," said Holst, grasping his spiked bangs. "We will not bend at the knee for the Empire."

"...It's amusing, considering that us coming together was a small dream of my young master's," Nader sighed ruefully. "Just not like this. But so be it."

"So be it indeed," Holst agreed, surprised at that dream. Perhaps he could inquire about it at a later date. 

"Well then," Nader began quietly, more wary than ever. "It seems that even with this country at a loss, your underground network functions still. The lady's network is impeccably swift and powerful, and so was her map. But I don't think it's enough." 

Holst gazed at his now-former rival dead-on, his maroon eyes blazing with fire. “I may not be the tactician Duke Riegan is, but I was always a good student when I wanted to be. I've learned a thing or two about espionage, and let me assure you that we have something far greater than the Daphnel spy network. Shall I explain?”

“...very well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia  
> \- Almyra seems to be an amalgamation of Turkish, Iranian, and Ottoman motifs in the game. The royal titles are all either Old Persian or Turkish. A _pasha_ is a high-ranking military officer, and can also be applied to governors and dignitaries.  
> \- Iran has some of the oldest waterway networks in the world. Their main characteristics are that they are very deep underground due to the nature of Iran's major rivers, and they are called _quanats._ They are dated to have existed since the first millennium B.C. Ancient Persians also engineered a sophisticated ice storage building called a _yakhchal,_ and they're still utilized in a modified manner today.  
> \- Hilda got her helpless act from Holst, although in his case, he restricted it towards some homework assignments. He was also absolutely terrible at it.  
> \- I did, in fact, give Nader a daughter and a family to go with him. If Wajida were a game unit, she would be an Assassin, and high resistance would be a big quirk of hers.


	2. II: Oath of Darkness (Wyvern Moon, 1182)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In This Chapter: The Alliance opts to utilize an alternate approach to the war, and Ignatz makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty exposition-heavy, so I apologize in advance.

_**Wyvern Moon** _

_**Imperial Year 1182** _

_**Riegan Estate** _

Adrestia had House Vestra and some pithy network of spies, Faerghus had its Order of the Black Cabinet, and the Church of Seiros had the Wings of Macuil, which hadn’t seen action since the Alliance’s founding. Leicester, the weakest of the three nations since its inception, was able to stand heads above the other two thanks to its diverse assortment of military intelligence. The five Roundtable houses all had their own, and while the Eastern Church had no real power, it too had a network that served to protect the more destitute common folk, usually from the more feisty lords of the Empire. The most powerful of all, however, was an all-encompassing organization that served no house, but the country alone: The organization the Roundtable discreetly titled the Crescent Ring.

The Ring's uniqueness was in how it assigned different operations to different branches, and had a nifty series of auxiliary offices planted in lesser-populated areas in the other two countries. The Gibbous Branch ferried prisoners of war to either neutral lands or the auxiliary offices; the Crescent Branch was traditional espionage; the Half Branch trained decoders and interceptors; and the Eclipse Branch were an elite branch that ran missions to Almyra. More often than not, the Eclipse Branch would be taking on missions against their behemoth of a neighbor, but there had also been times when they willingly lent their aid to Almyra's own order, the _Hashashin._

That left the Full and New Moon branches. The former was a full-fledged rescue squad for high-priority targets; the latter fully-fledged assassins. The nature of their jobs meant constant collaboration, and unlike the nobles that squabbled over lordship over the country, these two branches had been stalwart allies for ages and remained as such to this day.

It was during the latter half of the year 1182 that Ignatz Victor would recruit himself into the Ring. On a cold, stormy night late during the Wyvern Moon, he had just finished the latest of a strenuously long string of commissions that was publicly funding his family and privately funding Claude's war efforts. In the midst of his journey from the Riegan Estate to his family home in western Derdriu, some offshoot of the Empire’s own General Randolph von Bergliez had turned out to be camping further east, hoping to put the remaining residents of the Eastern Church to slaughter. His own soldiers were touted to be among the best, but the reason for their deaths was almost comical: A hapless foot soldier had chosen the wrong time to relieve himself, and the wrong place to boast about their intended to his companions. 

Ignatz, under the protection of the misty rain and late night shadows, had heard everything. It only took two years' time for him to build the muster to take another life, something that, to himself, seemed like an insurmountable task. He discreetly put the lot out of their misery with three swift arrows before they could piss.

Any other man would’ve run off to warn the authorities at that point, but as the son of merchants, Ignatz knew better. Those who had a leg up in wares or prestige would quietly let any incapacitated or dead rot away, or remain blissfully tight-lipped if a fraud were exposed. The art world had its similarities, although thankfully it was far less frequent. There was no doubt in Ignatz’ still freshly-scarred mind that this platoon was more than meets the eye, and he turned out to be correct.

To a merchant’s son, their coded words and their plainer, looser clothing were all he needed to confirm that there were more like them hidden nearby, maybe across the country. 

So he took the rest of the nearby motley crew out, all of them quivers for his arrows, and for their leader, he used a stiletto blade that his brother gifted to him once the Empire had officially declared war. The blade was suitable for one such as his brother, as it was a stealthy, thrusting blade ill-suited for typical warfare. But for a more underhanded fight, it was perfect, as Ignatz found himself thrusting the blade into the leader's neck in a single motion, his life immediately gutted. His quick strikes and use of shadows also turned out to be one of the very few good things he learned under Professor Manuela's tenure ( _Which made it doubly annoying that both she and Professor Hanneman opted to side with the Empire)._ She was a lout and a drunkard and too suspicious for her own good, but she was blessed with many talents, and the art of assassination happened to be one of them.

Daybreak had barely broken out when he, running on raw adrenaline and fear, booked it back to the Riegan Estate. Claude and Judith were there, and by a stroke of fate, so was the woman who would offer him his soon-to-be-new job. He presented the black spot and the set of threads that the platoon had been using as communication, and it only took two hours for the woman to decode it and realize that Ignatz had downed a small yet powerful crew of Adrestian assassins. It was quite a feat for a sheepish young man who only wished to be an artist.

“And you keep telling me they’re the strongest of the three countries,” the recruiter sneered. “This is one of the sloppiest attempts at discretion I’ve seen and heard of in a long time.”

“Sloppy or not, they still have raw power on their side,” Claude retorted. “They're compromised at the moment, but they still managed to sneak a small network under our nose. Even if we’ve cut off part of the web, it still remains. They have numbers to back it up too.”

“All the more reason to let all the branches of the Ring work in earnest, don’t you think?” The woman raised a brow, crossing her arms. “This country is small and secular, and yet to your Empire, comraderie with them is out of the question. I have no doubt that your Empress would set this place aflame before setting sights on the Kingdom.” She stared down at the massive map of Fodlan that took up the table, idly tracing a finger around the chunk of the map that signified the Empire. "I am kind of surprised they haven't attempted to do so yet."

"Time is on our side for now, but probably not for long," Judith explained. "The Myriddin Bridge is still ours, and if our latest report is correct, the Kingdom and Knights of Seiros have united in earnest. I know this because I have members of my network planted here..." - a finger firmly pressed dead center - "...in Garreg Mach Monastery."

"That's definitely an ideal location for anyone to capture," said the recruiter. "But I thought you said that the Empire took it last year? That was how the war began."

"They did," said Judith. "But... _something_ happened, something that no one's been able to fathom, and the main forces were somehow driven back. Since then, the Empire and the Knights have been clashing to reclaim it, and the more destitute have also seem to begun ransacking it."

Ignatz whimpered, albeit quietly enough that no one heard it. "Unbelievable..."

Claude grimaced, but said nothing.

"I suppose the possibility of us capturing this monastery is out of the question."

"Absolutely not. We could utilize each house's spy network twice over and unite our armies and it wouldn't be enough. Gloucester turned coat, and they're not looking back. Ordelia's showing signs of turning too, what with their only heiress having joined the Black Eagle Strike Force. We lack a united cause, and we lack firepower."

Another grimace from Claude. "Lysithea..."

"Claude?" Ignatz questioned the young Sovereign Duke. "Something happened to her, didn't it."

"I'm to blame," he sighed, staring at the wall. "I told her and her family to flee if things got bad. The count and countess have been run ragged by the old regime, and Lysithea showed no interest in continuing the family line. But I never imagined they'd willingly join them..."

"For your information, Claude," Ignatz said carefully, "When we were still students, around the time of the Pegasus Moon of that year, I recall seeing Lysithea speaking quite often with Edel...with the Empress. I think she even joined the Eagles at the last minute too. And they were quite covert when they spoke..." Ignatz took a breath, bristling at the memories of Lysithea's never-ending slinging of barbs at him and his former classmates. "I'm sorry to say, Claude, but if we take her House's history into consideration...and her, er, _behavior..._ I'd say that her loyalty was a lost cause." He shook his head. "It's unfortunate, really, but the Goddess alone knows if she would've taken a fancy to your cause, Claude. I certainly doubt the count and countess would have."

Claude's green eyes grew stormy and shone with something that Ignatz could only speculate as possible pain. But with Claude, it was eternally difficult to tell. 

"I, I don't think you should lose sleep on it, Claude." Ignatz shook his head, frowning. "She was someone who always seemed to be in pain, but she's completely incapable of putting herself in someone else's shoes." He ignored Claude's slight show of indignity. "Do you honestly think she could understand what you're trying to achieve...?"

 _"You don't fully understand either,"_ Claude wanted to bite back, but he bit his tongue. 

"Look at it this way, boy." Judith gave Claude a small, reassuring smile, but it was false. "That's only two allies you've lost, really....allies tied to _major noble houses,_ but only two. And even with the Empire's spies in place, our lands are still intact." A grasping of hands. "Maybe a more covert approach is the best way to get out of this bind we're in."

"I agree," said the recruiter. "To reiterate: we use our _branches..._ " She near-glared at Claude. "...outside the country, along with one or two House networks, and then use what remains from the church's circle in the country to provide protection for the common folk..." A scratch of the chin, confusion suddenly settling. "Come to think of it, what is the current status of this country's church? The previous report had half the clergymen defecting to Faerghus, and Mister Victor is now telling us that whomever remains are being targeted. This is worrisome."

"It is," said Judith. "All of the church branches have been in jeopardy since the war began, but because the Eastern Church has no militia to protect itself, they're in even bigger peril." She grimaced. "Most of the worshipers here are ordinary people..."

"Slaughtering civilians, hm? That's a ghastly thought," said the recruiter, equally as distressed.

"Goddess knows what could've happened had that squad not been found," said Ignatz, anger softly but surely bubbling beneath the surface.

"That's right. The Eastern branch has had no real relationship with the Central Church for decades. The founders refused to endorse any religion at a national level since its inception; our church is simply what it is.” The corners of the massive parchment that covered the table tightly bunched under her grip. “If they’re willing to kill ordinary folk who peacefully worship, well...I think we know just what kind of company they’re keeping over there.”

 _"Even if they're following such a faith..."_ Claude thought darkly - and swiftly crushed those heinous thoughts. Now wasn't the time to ruminate on that. What was more, these were still ordinary people.

“Yeah...yeah, you’re right...” Claude huffed, gaze downturned. “They really are taking it this far, huh...” 

The threshold of fate had finally lain itself before Ignatz. Those who built the culture were boons for the people during times of strife, but the flames of war could just as easily destroy them. And though he still did not find himself a fit warrior, his time at the Officer’s Academy had steeled him enough in combat to take up arms if needed. The man himself had commended his skill at striking from the shadows, and Ignatz finally saw his praises bear fruit.

And there was also the matter of the former leader of the Golden Deer himself…

“I...I’ve made up my mind.”

“Ignatz?”

The young man of twenty faced Claude, his eyes stormy with a fierceness the young Duke had never seen before. “You told me once that I had the kind of face that could disarm someone, right? And with the kind of training I’ve had, with my mundane merchant history, my, my _everything..._ we don’t need artists right now, Claude, and we certainly don’t need someone like myself making an ass of themselves on the front lines.”

“Ignatz, you...”

“Hear hear,” the recruiter interjected, playfully smiling in approval at Ignatz. “Are you offering yourself to the Ring, good sir? If you are what you claim to be, then all the better for this country.” A stray lock of reddish hair found itself falling out of the embroidered orange band of the young woman’s red-and-white headdress. As she delicately pushed it back underneath, her smile evolved into a complete grin, fixing her deep green eyes onto Ignatz’s earthy browns. “Now, a seasoned operative such as I would be demonstratively insane for not putting you to the test before recruitment. And that is not considering putting vows on loyalty and country either. Alas, we are living in dire times. I will likely have to leave the measuring of your fighting prowess to chance. At the very least, I can certainly take comfort that your loyalty lies to this fair Alliance and to our sweet Grand Duke here.”

“Tamar, for the last time, I’m not -”

“Oh hush, your lordliness.”

So it seemed that the woman’s name was Tamar – certainly not a name Ignatz had heard before. Indeed, going by her looks – the pinkish yet lightly tanned skin, the great heaping of freckles that lined her face, the green eyes that bore a shape akin to Claude’s own, and most noticeably, the elaborately patterned, crimson-colored dress with a small black overcoat and the beautiful red and white satin veil, lined with embroidered flowers that kept all but a few wisps of hair hidden from the world – this Tamar was certainly not from Fodlan. Even with the Seiros Tenants in place, they did not stop fragments of the outside world from slipping across Fodlan’s borders; the Alliance’s status as a palpable haven for the artisan class, combined with its less rigid adherence to Crest culture, made it the primary recipient of outsiders.

“May I sate Ignatz’s curious mind?” Judith inquired, smirking slightly. Tamar nodded, beaming at the boy while Judith rolled out introductions

“Listen up, Ignatz,” said Judith, “This is Tamar Anchabadze of Morfis. She was an acolyte on a mission and needed work after a while, and, well...here we are. One of the Ring’s finest. Good with Faith magic and the blade, and _quite_ pretty in my humble opinion.” Tamar chuckled at the compliment.

“I’m typically assigned to the Full and New Moon branches; they tend to work together. Pardon me for bragging, but my looks have salvaged operations on many occasions.” Tamar twirled the edge of her veil, and Ignatz, pink with fluster, stammered.

“Forgive me if I was staring at you…”

“Think nothing of it, Mister Victor.”

“Um, if I may ask,” He asked, voice dropping in volume, feeling like an intruder, “Why become a spy? And, well...” He blushed out of embarrassment. “...Fodlan usually hasn’t been kind to people, erm, from beyond the border...”

“I have my reasons,” Tamar said decisively. “But I can happily assure you that I like this place, this Leicester. And I am quite enamored with your Grand Duke’s cause, you know.”

Claude muttered something under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear.

“In any case...” The cheer from her face vanished. She gave Judith a knowing glance, and the Duchess gave a firm nod, covertly agreeing in letting the artist join the Ring’s ranks. “If you choose to go through with this, there is obligatory filing and paperwork that you have to fill out, the usual swearing of all the oaths and loyalties, et cetera, et cetera. Once that is done, we will have to place you in whichever branch you are most capable of performing in. After that...your life will certainly change for quite some time, you know.”

“If one denied that everything changed the day Edelgard and the Empire stormed Garreg Mach Monastery, then one might as well admit living with their head in the sand,” Ignatz huffed. “Whatever this Ring is, whatever I have to do for it, I...I’m ready.”

Tamar clapped her hands together, satisfied, and Judith shared her relish. “Then it is settled. I shall give you a week’s time to prepare, Mister Victor. Due to the nature of our job, it is best that you let that be known to your family...with discretion, of course.”

“And I haven’t a doubt in my mind that the Ring will flourish even more with Ignatz as a part of it now,” said Judith, smirking as she turned to Claude. “Well, boy? Will you put the Ring to work? If we don’t, the goddess alone knows how many more times the Empire’ll turn our subjects into sheep meant for slaughter.”

Claude didn’t have the heart to object Judith’s teasing title for him, because it finally settled into him that he might as well be acting like one. Time and again he refused to consider just how far his former classmate was willing to push in bringing Adrestia back to its former glory, in utterly uprooting the Church and possibly erasing those who stood for it, in bringing some new-fangled way of ruling to pass, the commoners’ and nobles’ standings and processes be damned.

Time and again he was in disbelief in the former Golden Deer’s faith in him, how they were able to accept this turbulence with an eerie amount of ease. He was in disbelief that they found merit in his dream of opening Fodlan’s borders someday. He was in disbelief that, somehow, he found allies in Judith, in Tamar, in the Almyrans that truly swore fealty to their mutt of a Prince.

And he was in disbelief that Teach herself had chosen to serve as the shadow to Edelgard’s light, after everything that happened, after getting to know her, after seeing what Edelgard had done. He read the Adrestian books. He studied Edelgard's movements. He saw how she looked at their professor, how she picked her apart, seemingly begged her to be swayed. It took not much time for him to realize that the shadowy group responsible for Jeralt's death were allied with Edelgard. Through it all, despite it all, Byleth stayed.

But then again, perhaps he misjudged her. She was not as forthcoming as he had liked - and he wasn't either. In the beginning, he had also seen her as a tool, first and foremost. The delicate blossom that formed their bond had been tattered to pieces the day she and Edelgard went away to Enbarr during the Guardian Moon of 1181, where Edelgard eagerly took her father's throne. 

Byleth had changed that day. It hurt. It was not pain from a loss of a potential tool for his dreams, either...

But pain or no pain, the three in front of him were ultimately - sadly - correct. The time for grieving and doubt had ended.

Claude resolved to push all of that disbelief into the abyss, and move forward into the unknown, with all the risks that entailed. The Alliance had been at an awkward standstill for too long, and his standing as Sovereign Duke possibly in jeopardy. Th.e endgame he sought did not have him as Duke Riegan forever, but it was far too early to return to his fatherland

And only the Great Lord of Wisdom alone knew how his fatherland would react to his return now...

“...I've decided. As of today, I shall provide greater funding for the Crescent Ring, and all branches may operate fully,” Claude said solemnly. “We need to better protect our homeland somehow.”

He turned to Ignatz, whose bravery at this moment far exceeded his. It was not long ago that he seemed so fragile, so frightened like a fawn. The bespectacled young man’s expression softened in the face of Claude’s own, lain with worry.

“Claude…?”

“Regardless of where you wind up...please be careful, Ignatz.”

“...I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- To give you an idea what kind of clothing Tamar is wearing (and what I sort of picture parts of Morfis like), she's wearing a caul. "Tamar" is also a Hebrew name that refers to a date palm, and is also a biblical character in the book of Genesis.  
> \- While I can rationalize Rhea escaping from the Monastery right after Byleth disappearing during CF's version of Chapter 12, Edelgard and company diddling around the Monastery for half a decade and the war being at a true stalemate don't have much of an excuse outside of her longing for Byleth. Edelgard has a very flagrant advantage not just in terms of positioning (the Empire clearly still has the Monastery under their control in CF, which is very much not true on the other three), but in terms of resources (the Empire being the largest country + the Monastery isn't in shambles) and weapons (The Agarthans, natch. Also, if you explore the Monastery during Chapter 14, several characters will comment on the usage of Demonic Beasts, so they're in all likelihood still being used, just not by the Black Eagle Strike Force). Even Faerghus having the Knights of Seiros on their side shouldn't really turn the tides in their favor outside of Rhea utilizing her Immaculate One form more often. Hence, this chapter.


	3. III: Gentlemen of Deceit (Lone Moon, 1185)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In This Chapter: Ignatz goes undercover to find any clues that could possibly locate Claude, who is now a prisoner of the Empire. He may - or may not - be alone in his mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Racism, masturbation

_**Lone Moon** _

_**Imperial Year 1185**_

_**Southern Varley County** _

  
  


Spring had barely begun, and yet most of Adrestia was experiencing what might have been the warmest Lone Moon in forty-five years. The heat had not dampened the spirits of its people, though. As Ignatz had come to bitterly discover, the Adrestians were reveling in the unusually early onset of heat, taking to beaches and fields for picnics in the daytime and shopping and tavern tomfoolery in the nighttime. It was as if the continent wasn’t at war at all, but Ignatz supposed that it was easy to keep war out of mind if the revelers were on the winning side. Ever since Derdriu was overrun by the Black Eagle Strike Force and the Alliance put to their mercy, it took very little time for the more fortunate Adrestians to break out into celebration. And once word broke out that the Force had successfully protected Garreg Mach and repelled the Knights of Seiros, celebrations rose further to a fever pitch. Adrestians had been a prideful sort, as those who dwelt in an Empire tended to be, and that pride never waned even after nearly a thousand years of a steady loss of power.

How endearing, then, that they could happily celebrate their lands regaining nations that were flourishing like new flowers on their own, their roots forcefully ripped out.

The more that the man known as Ignatz Victor learned of Adrestia during his time working for the Crescent Ring’s New Moon Branch, the more displeasure he felt towards Edelgard and her crew. The problems that she had projected over the continent seemed to be primarily had by the Empire itself. If one were to chart and record such problems, one could estimate that seventy percent or so of those problems were heavily aligned with the Empire: The fixation on Crests and associated fetishizing of those who had them, the corruption that spurred the Insurrection of the Seven (which, in his own opinion, may not even have been the worst thing ever when he learned just what Ionius IX had done during his reign), the fractured relationship with the Central Church that spanned a century and a half...and that was barely scratching the surface, if the utterly bizarre magazines touting Ionius IX's greatness were anything to go by. It was all quite baffling, with the most nefarious that stuck out being a footnote about how the man fathered eleven(!?) children. 

_“It's written as a boast, but it's a footnote?”_ Ignatz thought when he first saw it. _“Maybe there's a dark history here he or Edelgard would rather not boast about..._ _”_

“You find it strange too then?” A stranger’s voice snapped Ignatz out of his reverie. The young man, now of twenty-three, immediately snapped back into the guise that the Ring had carefully trained him to utilize. Today, he was not Ignatz Victor, second son of a once-prosperous merchant family and aspiring historical artist who had earned his keep in many parts of Leicester. Today, he was Gerard Wagner, a struggling court artist from what had been once the Viscounty of Nuvelle. If he and the Alliance were correct in assuming what Edelgard had wished for Fodlan, then “Herr Wagner” being a classically trained painter of humble origins who once made portraiture for both the Viscounty’s House and the other Houses in western Adrestia would make for the perfect tragic story of someone who could win over the new House Hresvelg and the revolutionaries associated with it – a man of merit.

(Never mind that it took arguably as much cash and underhanded gumption to win over a court-level painter’s hand in tutelage as it did to get into the Officer’s Academy, but details, details…)

“I do find it strange,” said “Gerard.” “Where would all these children be? Even when I was working, I do not recall the names of many of these children coming up.” He crinkled his nose, something that Ignatz generally did _not_ do. “Perhaps I am a poor apprentice in that I can’t keep track of our country’s royalty?”

“Hah! Maybe so,” said the stranger, an older man who had the calloused, cracked hands of a sculptor. “But who’s to say that our previous Emperor’s progeny aren’t elsewhere, doing bigger and better things?”

“ _Probably because everyone short of an alley rat would find the sudden disappearance of ten children born from the Empire’s seat of power to be extremely suspect,”_ Ignatz thought, struggling to hide a snide glare. _“_ _And that’s not even taking the Seiros Tenants into consideration, but the Empire’s been peculiar around the Church even before the war...”_

“Well, that seems terribly inconsiderate of them,” Ignatz said with a forced bit of teasing. “But perhaps they can put in a good word for our country if they’re where you say they are, my good man.”

“I certainly hope so!” The man chuckled, giving Ignatz a hefty shoulder pat. “Shame they aren’t here to know that we have that useless Alliance back under our rule. There’d be something for them to share!” The man grew comfortable enough with “Gerard” to guide him along. “And not a minute too soon! Rumor has it that the hapless Riegan bastard who was running the show was some filthy thing from the east. What was the name of that place again….? Almir? Palmyra? Ach, it doesn’t matter.”

“ _Don’t stab him, don’t stab him, don’t stab him...”_

“By the way, are you by any chance on your way to the fairgrounds today? The good news of the war has lifted the spirits of those who run Count Varley’s House, and they have sponsored a fair deal of cash to let it happen. I hear the man himself may be freed from his arrest within to moon too.”

“Lucky man,” said Ignatz, tampering his curiosity. “Strange to put a man like him on lockdown, no? I hear that his ministry hasn’t done much these past few years.” He adjusted the freshly-crafted pince-nez frames that were made especially for this guise. “I primarily worked for the western Houses, so I’m afraid I’m not entirely up to snuff on what goes on east of the Oghma Mountains, you see.”

“Lucky you, I’ve been around. Saying they haven’t done much is a bit of a stretch, but...” The sculptor stretched, taking out a velvet coin purse once the fair came into view. “House Hresvelg hasn’t had the nicest relationship with the Church these days, so House Varley’s job as the head department of religious affairs is kinda in jeopardy. Before he was arrested, the current Count liked to stay relevant by butting into the Ministry of the Interior – that’s House Hevring’s job. And they don’t appreciate that one bit.”

“I see...that’s unfortunate.”

“Yep, yep. All that Count Varley has going for him these days is that adorable bean of a daughter of his. Who’dve thunk that little Bernadetta would be fighting right alongside the Black Eagle Strike Force?”

Ah.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m always happy to support someone who’d help make this place good again, but seeing her out in the open is akin to finding a mermaid. I frankly don’t know what the hell to make of her. I don’t like the Count, not really, but you shoot his daughter one look and she screams and scampers like some rabbit. What does she even do for them, I wonder...”

“What indeed...”

“Here, have a _torten._ I love ‘em, truly one of the finest things in life.”

The sculptor offered Ignatz an Adrestian dessert – _torten von epffel,_ a kind of apple tart – freshly baked off of one of the fairgrounds’ food stands. The bespectacled man had to force himself to not grimace at the excessively saccharine apple spread and the burnt dough crust.

“Very fine indeed,” Ignatz forced out.

“Ho! Look over there, my friend!”

He guided Ignatz towards a simple wooden amphitheater-style stage that was framed by a flimsy crimson velvet curtain; other than a semi-circle of seats in the back that was flaunted by a number of guards, there were no seats, only a large pit. The setup and acoustics were not ideal for an opera or a choir, so it was likely meant for dancers. The small orchestra had taken position below the stage for warm-up, although one wouldn’t be able to tell at first brush due to the noise from the crowd that had gathered. Judging by the slew of flush faces and presence of tossed pewter goblets on all sides though, Ignatz figured that they weren’t really interested in the music. A few dressed-down ladies had accidentally flashed a bit of skin from backstage, which meant that it took almost no time for the waves of catcalls and whoops to come about.

One of those flashes was heavily sun-speckled, lined with a rusty red braid that Ignatz had come to know well over the past three years.

“ _Very clever, Tamar.”_

“Hey _hey,_ now there’s something you don’t see ‘round these parts every day,” a nearby guard crooned, brows waggling. The sculptor chuckled in reply, equally as eager. Tamar, ever the expert, happily shoved her speckled bum from behind the curtain, with short bloomers finer than gossamer serving as a joke of a barrier for modesty.

“’Ey ey!" The sculptor shouted, body flush. "You wanna give us a show!? Come on out! C’mon!”

Tamar’s cheeky response was to slip behind the curtain, tossing her undies as a parting kiss.

They landed squarely on top of Ignatz’s head.

“ _...How am I supposed to feel about this?”_

“...hey, Gerard my boy...” The sculptor leaned in, face flushed, and Ignatz immediately felt himself lose five years of his life. “...think you can, uh, _spare an old man some kindness?”_

With the sluggishness of a turtle and all the delicacy of a headless chicken, Ignatz plucked the underwear – _schwip_ – off of his head, held it up high like a war trophy, and plopped it in the old man’s hands. Whatever dignity the man put out in his role as a vaulted artist was smashed to pieces as he and his fellow men cheered at the scented fabric, stashing it in his front pocket for what Ignatz assumed was definitely _not_ for a future practice sketch.

"Aww, _I_ wanted those!" The guard - whose deep, flirtatious cadence was a little _too_ familiar to Ignatz - moaned, pulling at his tomato-colored curls. "You better buy me a drink later, you old fart!"

Huh.

"Be my guest!" The sculptor turned to the guard, laughing happily. "Meet me at the Dragon's Maw later tonight! Gahaha!"

"For sure!"

"And _we_ might just be there..." Tamar breathed loud enough for the audience to hear. A chorus of "oooohs" and cheers erupted from the male audience members (and maybe a woman or two), and it took very little time for chaos to begin brewing in earnest. A headache already throbbed across Ignatz's temples.

“ _You’re enjoying this too much, Tamar,”_ he sighed, gazing up helplessly as his disguised companion and her company of dancers took to the stage. Contrary to the dancers’ teasing, their costumes were surprisingly modest: black linen suits, starched, puffed white shirts, and red and green sashes woven tight at the waist. Black headscarves knotted at the back, with red tails draped over the shoulder, completed the look; the costumes were surprisingly decorative and floaty, reminding Ignatz of the clothing that Alliance citizens who lived right by Fodlan’s Throat wore. Most of the women had no extra flourishes, but Tamar, being as unabashedly unashamed of her heritage as she was, wore a lengthy cross-shaped necklace, one of many markings of her Morfis heritage.

“Aww, are they really doing some ancient dance? Get naked, dammit!” A man’s voice from elsewhere shouted, and the sculptor whooped in agreement. Ignatz groaned. “Especially _you,_ desert girl!”

Not one to be deterred, Tamar blew a kiss and a wink toward the source of the voice. The offender giggled like an idiot and catcalled her, earning him a despondent, feminine moan from his left. As discreetly as one could, Ignatz bent backward at the man, the source of the catcall, and had to stop himself from bending over backwards in shock.

Count Bamber von Varley himself graced the audience with his presence. And on his left was the same daughter that feared him, Bernadetta von Varley.

Bernadetta, former recluse of the Black Eagles class of 1180, now a member of the Black Eagles Strike Force.

And what was more, his suspicions about that tomato-haired guard were correct - said guard was none other than Sylvain Jose Gautier, the man who nefariously turned towards the Black Eagles upon first brush with Byleth Eisner six years prior. Said brush had turned to fealty to the Empire, completely throwing his namesake territory into disarray.

He was said to have participated in the battle for Derdriu...Bernadetta too.

So why were they here? This would take quite a bit of thinking...

It did not take much prodding to learn that Bernadetta's rabbit-like cowardice was stemmed from the Count’s treatment of her. And due to the man’s house arrest, any hope that she might have had to hide away from the Empress’ war was swiftly extinguished. It did not take long for Ignatz to deduce that Bernadetta was likely either here on a mission, or that she perhaps was to keep tabs on her father (The man was one of those who partook in the Insurrection of the Seven, according to the Monastery's archives). There was no way in hell that Bernadetta would return to her father’s side willingly. She was here on either Edelgard or Byleth’s orders. An incentive likely kept her in place, with the most obvious being the safety of her old bedroom at Garreg Mach, no doubt, since the Empire had it under its thumb for most of the war; They had only lost it briefly in 1182, and had reclaimed it within less than a year after that. The Knights of Seiros did try to reclaim it once more at the end of the Pegasus Moon, but were unsuccessful, and now here they were.

Bernadetta was easy enough. Her face betrayed no signs of cleverness or tact, just unfiltered distress.

Why _Sylvain_ was here, though, was the truer mystery. Thus Ignatz began to muse, attempting to dance along with the music swelling on the stage as he did.

He had been at least of brigadier general rank when the war began, and was promoted to major general, then lieutenant general by the time the Invasion of Leicester began. According to his sources, he finally hit true general rank for his participation in taking the Great Bridge of Myrddin (and sacking the innocents therein, along with Judith's garrison; Under both Alliance and Kingdom laws, this would be considered a major war crime), and then he moved on to Derdriu. He did not know if he partook in the defense of Garreg Mach, but either way, the man ought to be far too busy to be gallivanting here, especially as a vaulted member of the Black Eagle Strike Force. Perhaps he was here to act as Bernadetta's partner? But the more he observed, the less likely it seemed; They did not acknowledge one another at all.

If anything, Sylvain looked disgusted. How strange, to have made it to this point, and - 

Oh.

Sylvain's eyes bugged. He likely caught sight of him.

Was he... _smiling_ at him?

Oh, dear.

It seemed that the mission to rescue Claude and gather intel would be moving more quickly than he thought.

“ _Tonight's going to be busy_ _,”_ Ignatz thought, letting himself get swept up by his sculptor pal. He had his targets. Soon, it would be time to get to work.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Bernadetta let out a wail of frustration, grasping tightly onto her newest oversized stuffy – Mr. Brambleshanks – and sank onto the plush carpet of her old bedroom. It was indifference that her father regarded her with today, the same as it had been for several years now, and yet after all this time, overthrowing her fear of him still stuck. She could have had the entirety of the Imperial military at her disposal, or Hubert’s magics, or a Hero’s Relic like the Professor’s, or even the same Sacred Weapon that her own Crest was tied to, and the fear would likely still overwhelm her. How pathetic it all seemed.

But in the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Someone even more powerful than the Empire could lend itself to Bernadetta, and not even it could change the fact that she still wanted nothing more in life than to hide away forever, embroidering and writing like a good, well-bred lady. Ironic, considering that her father's trespasses were for the sake of her femininity, but at least it would be on her own terms. No grand talk of a government of merits or destroying their so-called oppressors would sway Bernadetta; She gave no thoughts about the Empress’ ambitions. She was in this war for her own sake, and it just so happened that her fatherland was the winning side. And while she had enough fondness for Edelgard, she still despised how she opted to put her father under house arrest instead of just having him executed outright.

At the very least, she gave her an assignment that would keep her away from both her house and the fray for a while, although why Edelgard found Bernadetta up for this particular task mystified her. Really, overseeing their prisoners of war? The thought made her shiver. But on the other hand, the rest of her old classmates were far better suited for the main action, others like Hanneman and Manuela were better suited for day-to-day operations, and Lindhart’s weak constitution and repulsion towards suffering likely squeezed him out of this given task. That, sadly, left her and her alone. Wouldn’t someone like Hubert be better suited for overseeing prisoners? Bernadetta cursed him for being Edelgard’s right-hand man. She cursed him further when she saw the freshly delivered reports and roster that likely held information about the prison and prisoners she’d be overseeing, all of them sitting right next to her embroidery kit on her desk. The seal for House Vestra, black like ebony, seemed to beckon her like the night sky beckons sundown.

“Well, I’m not going to let that get me down,” Bernadetta whispered to herself, smiling. “Tonight’s gonna be for me, and me alone. Now, what shall I do? I’ll need a bath, for sure. But what to do before then? Either work on my cross-stitching, or finish that book Sylvain wanted...”

It took very little time for the tomato-haired man to flood Bernadetta’s mind. Soon enough her face’s color matched his hair’s to a tee. Looks like tonight would be the night that she’d finally finish writing _Jose, the Wicked Soldier._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The bathroom was as ostentatious as the rest of the house, but it was as much of a haven as Bernadetta’s room. She made a pleased hum at the sight of the red wallpaper and golden hexagram patterns and leaves that decorated it, along with the immaculate marble fixtures. She carefully stripped out of the indigo-dyed muslin dress that she wore for today’s festival and stepped into the bejeweled porcelain tub, already feeling herself float away into the recesses of her mind. As one who had this luxury, she’d reap it as much as she could tonight.

It was almost unbearably hot during the festival, and while the temperature dropped when the sun set, the stale, arid air did not waver. This was endemic throughout all of Varley Territory, but for some reason tonight, Bernadetta found it unbearable.

Inspired by the ending of her novel, she instead projected a far more favorable setting in her head, more verdant and slightly dewy and damp. The titular Jose won over his liege of a Prince and both he and his childhood friend and intended, a noble lady named Brandy, were chosen as his personal retainers. However, he also had a personally _intense_ relationship with a fallen noble-turned-mercenary named Hugo, and as the brother of Brandy’s former betrothed, she too had feelings for him. The three appeared to one another, stargazing in the dew, and Bernadetta couldn’t help but squeal in embarrassment at the steamy finale she wrote out. Thank the goddess for the idea of pen names, because the scandal of a noblewoman writing a novel that featured steamy threesomes and sodomy would be too immense to bear.

“ _Goddess, help me...anyone could probably tell that all that smut I wrote is just some lonely woman’s fantasies. It just reeks of desperation, I know it!”_

Her fear of the outside left her mostly free of yearning for a partner, but Bernadetta was only human, and all humans had needs. It was infrequent, but the need for stimulation was there. She felt far less shame in indulging that need than before, but just barely. Of course, a particular tomato-haired man curbed the shame somewhat, and _somehow…_

“ _He’s a scoundrel and a liar and he can get far too intense when something bothers him...and Goddess alone knows how many people he’s...he’s...ugh, I can’t even think it…!”_

But damn, he was attractive. The heat that rippled across her body and made it flush and pert could be felt, even within the hot bath water.

“ _...He’d never look my way, and yet...and yet…!”_

And yet, for all of his scandalous ways, he was kind and gentle, and likely very, _very_ experienced, Bernadetta thought, her hand ghosting over nipples and stomach. He saw her, timid like a rabbit, so no doubt he’d be slow and gentle, calloused fingers preparing her by brushing over a swollen clitoris, just as she was doing now. He’d wink at her, carefully bending her over, and, oh, _where_ would he take her? The stables? The cathedral? _Out in the open!?_

“ _Oh, Bernie, you’re terrible!”_

To hell with it! Out in the open, near the stables, creating a Crest-bearing child for everyone to witness! Slight, pale fingers slipped within her channel, a poor substitute for Sylvain Jose Gautier’s penetrating of her in her mind, gracefully and wickedly grazing his tongue on her neck as he began to thrust, mounted on her like the horses in the stable. What dirty things would he whisper in her ear? Would he comment on the dark, large birthmark on her bottom? Spank it, perhaps!?

The rippling and splashing of the water intensified to the point that Bernadetta did not hear her window pane being removed.

Louder and louder the water flowed, and so did Bernadetta’s moans. Just as her imaginary Sylvain hoisted her and spread her wide, sinking her onto him, so did she, rising out of the tub and bending out of it. No one was around to judge, right? What’s a little wanton moaning, desires flowing freely? It was not as if there was someone sitting in her room right now, waiting to summon her. The sound of papers fluttering was probably some figment of her imagination.

“Sylvain...Sylvain…!”

The fluttering and scratching that came from her bedroom halted as the tense coil within Bernadetta sprung and splattered, dropping her on the floor, leaving her jittery and limp. She shrieked in ecstasy, letting herself float away on her cold, hard tile floor. Nothing else mattered – the war, her new position, nothing. Nothing at all.

Not her father, or her suitors.

Not her Crest.

Not Edelgard.

Not the Professor.

Not Rhea, the Knights of Seiros, the church.

Not the now-fallen Alliance. Not the Kingdom.

Not even her toys, or her embroidery, or her novels.

Not the papers, likely gathering dust on her desk.

Not her carrier pigeon, which Hubert was likely expecting by the end of the week.

Not the shadows on the wall. Not that conspicuous green patch.

What a peculiar green patch it was.

Probably some stuffy she had forgotten about.

It shifted about. How odd.

No, no more thoughts tonight.

“ _No more thoughts...no more war...I want to just drift away forever...”_

Even in a post-orgasmic heap on the floor, this was bliss.

The patch moved closer.

Bernadetta didn’t care.

“ _Tonight would be perfect if Sylvain were here...”_

Then only the most important things would matter.

“ _Yes, tha - “_

  
  


* * *

  
  


The operation to copy the paperwork had been a crapshoot from the get-go considering the quantity of the contents. The shifting and moaning was enough to convince Ignatz to forgo the initial plan entirely and swap them with sloppily-made fakes. Knowing Bernadetta, it would take her far longer than ideally to spot the differences between them anyway. Perhaps if she played with herself for an hour longer, then he could have struck some kind of deal with her, but she was also aligned with the Empire, and Edelgard’s ability to evoke loyalty was comparable to the more zealous branches of the church. Thus Ignatz concluded that there was no way that she could avoid having to die.

So once he heard her climax and slip out of the tub ( _“_ _Poor Bernie. I understand that feeling all too well...”_ ), he aligned himself with her bathroom door, his brother’s stiletto knife in hand. His fortunes were doubled, seeing her boneless on the floor, covered by the shadows that the bathroom’s dimly lit candles offered. She was primed for a clean kill, but she was also bound to scream at the first sight of danger. A swift slash in the neck was all it took – miraculous, factoring that the stiletto was more ideal for thrusting – and any final sounds she uttered was gagged with a black-gloved hand. The death was swift yet messy, but a stabbing motion in the neck itself, or any other body part, would be suspect should her body be found quickly. Thankfully, Ignatz had a cheap backup knife to re-frame this murder, and he completed the deceit by placing it in her right hand.

“ _Maybe if you weren’t so cowardly, this wouldn’t have had to happen,”_ Ignatz thought darkly, stowing his now-bloodied slippers into a pocket in his cape. He let the body bleed, knowing that any drop of blood that landed on him could fly off and denote that this was a murder. He deftly stepped out of the bathroom and shut the door, carefully continuing his sacking of her bedroom. Aside from House Vestra’s papers, other two major things of value were a new map of Garreg Mach that was recently drafted and a magicked dowsing device, likely a holdover from her Faith Magic studies, but nevertheless valuable. There was also a secondary order to find the Inexhaustible bow, the Sacred Relic tied to the Crest of Saint Indech; with the loss of Hilda, Marianne, and Ingrid, all Relic-wielders, the fractured Alliance rebels were lacking in fire power. If Seteth were to be believed, the Sacred Weapons, all forged by Saint Macuil himself, could be wielded by one and all – while their powers were maximized in the hands of their respective Crest-bearers, even a peon could otherwise use them without risk. Unfortunately, it was not here.

“It’ll come around at some point, I’m sure,” Ignatz muttered to himself as he disposed of Bernadetta’s personal carrier pigeon. His own, a bird specially trained to follow Raphael’s commands, was soon substituted and ready to carry out orders. As he surveyed the room one last time, he spotted one final piece of paper, seemingly stuck on the bottom of the files from House Vestra.

An orange-hued Crest of Gautier was on its wax seal.

"A trap?" Ignatz said to himself, cautiously grasping for the sheet. He took the letter opener that was on the desk and slowly, delicately cut through it - and tossed the offending paper away from him, lest a poisoned powder or some kind of magic harmed him.

Nothing happened.

As much as he wanted to read whatever mystery paper this was _now,_ he had spent far more time here than necessary, and since there was no trap on the letter, he could read it with Tamar at the rendezvous point later on. He surveyed the room one final time, assuring that nothing was left to be found, and carefully exited the window he came from. There was no way he could re-install the pane he delicately removed; he could only prop it back in place. Hopefully, no one would spot it for at least several days.

The distant flickers of dark petals that served as Tamar’s signal gave him reassurance, and he slid down the oak tree that graced the east side of the Varley Estate. Wonder of wonders, Tamar, the outsider from Morfis, possessed an unusual Crest, and its ability to passively grow flowers was unique to it alone. Nothing else could replicate it, so the only trap that Ignatz could possibly fall into would be those of his own doing, or if someone else were to pass him by chance.

Closer and closer Ignatz crept. The auxiliary office that the Crescent Ring had in place in Varley was a decrepit gambling den that sat under an inn. He approached, gazing lovingly upon Tamar, now adorned in a sultry dress more suited towards her false dancing profession, hair and complexion gussied and dewy. Passers-by were very few, yet to keep the disguise going, “Gerard Wagner” swept up his intended and kissed her.

“Do that again, and I’ll charge you by the hour instead of half,” Tamar giggled.

“Can I pay you for two?” Ignatz replied.

“Eeey, _you_ were supposed to go for two with _me,_ sweetheart!”

Out of all people Ignatz did _not_ want to deal with again, it was the damn sculptor he had the displeasure of meeting earlier today. The man was mercifully daft and heavy with drink, so perhaps he could be spared after all…

“You stiffed me at the pub earlier today, you oaf,” Tamar huffed. The man was too drunk to call out her lie. “You pay up front, or you get nothing.”

“Fucking desert bitch!”

Nope. No mercy. Ignatz was going to kill him twice.

“You’d think an artist employed by House Bergliez would have the pithy cash to pay for someone as lowly as me, but I guess not,” Tamar taunted. “Looks like the rumors were right. I guess you’re not much more than a hack after all.”

“Why you little - agh!”

Ignatz and Tamar jumped far, _far_ back from the now-smoldering sculptor, his backside lit aflame from - was that a Bolganone spell, of all things? The man could only gasp and gurgle, too shocked at how his death had played out.

"What...th..."

A leather riding boot crunched into the now-corpse of the sculptor, with the boot belonging to one Sylvain Gautier, formerly of Faerghus. A pair of ochre eyes landed on the duo, tense and opaque, much like sand. The knitted brows on the man's face did not display the wrath he normally held in battle, however - this was quite different.

"That was careless of you, goading him on like that."

Tamar, hands on hips, glared at the red-haired man, sizing him up. "As if an insatiable thing like you wouldn't know about that? Besides, if you went any harder with that spell of yours, it wouldn't just be his body that'd be set aflame."

"Lucky you then, hm?"

Ignatz kept the stiletto active beneath his cloak, using quite a bit of resistance to not lunge it in the older man's chest right then and there. "Well then? What does one of the Empire's esteemed generals want with the likes of us?" He bit his lip, trying not to let the hodgepodge of fear and anger spill further than it needed to. It was tough, what with that mirthful chuckle Sylvain let slip.

"Never thought you had it in you, Ignatz, not gonna lie." The man shrugged as nonchalantly and delicately as he did during their school days. "But I suppose that's to be expected, what with the war and all..."

"Don't you _dare_ play coy, Sylvain," Ignatz breathed, hairs all on end like a preying cat. "You knew what you were getting yourself into. If you want to fight right here..."

"Hold a moment," Sylvain pleaded, hands up in surrender. "I'm not here to fight, not even close. In fact, I want to parley with you."

The air barely stirred, with only the slightest whorls of wind sweeping around them. Ignatz was still guarded, and Tamar was about to reach for a weapon of her own as well.

"...This," Ignatz parsed carefully, "Wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that piece of paper I found at the Varley Estate, would it? The one with the Gautier Crest on it..."

"So you _did_ find it," Sylvain huffed, almost...relieved, it seemed. "You found out why I'm here then." He had the audacity to wink, and smile - after _everything_ he and the Empire did? 

"I actually haven't any idea why you're here," said Ignatz, still tense. "Had no time to read it. Besides, it could've been trapped for all I know."

"It's really not, I promise you."

Ignatz stepped closer, blood running hot and ready to strike. Sylvain choked, getting on his knees. "I promise you! Just read it, okay!?"

Tamar gave Ignatz a nod, swiftly shuffling her feet behind the now ex-Gautier heir. In spite of himself, the man let out a sensually-charged little chuckle, much like during his school days when he'd go out of his way to lay with another. Surely there was nothing sensual about having someone's feet pinning you by the ankles, or having a curved, well-tempered steel _shashka_ blade (a Morfite creation, according to Tamar) poised for the kill at one's throat. When Sylvain made no indication that he intended to move, Ignatz gathered his paper from his cloak and opened it, scrutinizing it intensely. 

"...If - and it's a very strong _if -_ this is to be believed, then the Empire is planning to feign an invasion on Fhirdiad with their main army. This is to serve as a distraction - the true goal of the Empire's next mission is the capturing of Arianrhod, which will be done by the Black Eagle Strike Force..."

"Arianrhod is the sole fortress of its magnitude in the southern half of Faerghus," said Sylvain, who let some nervousness slip through his suave veneer. "Most of the Kingdom's other strongholds are either around the capital or further east, and some of the areas there have been pretty impotent since the war's beginning. It makes too much sense, don't you think? With Arianrhod under the Empire's thumb, they could easily take over the capital. The surrounding areas have some appeal too - " Tamar dug her heel into one of his calves, getting a squeak out of him. "Lake Teutates' source is nearby, and Gideon has the Kingdom's most viable farmland - owowowow!" The heel struck a nerve, with the intent of delaying an escape.

"Tamar, he's not going anywhere. Stop that." Ignatz shuffled in closer, staring harshly at the red-headed man.

"This doesn't seem like a ruse, so it's best we _squeeze -"_ At that, she took one of Sylvain's arms and twisted it behind his back, primed to snap a wrist. " - as much information out of him as possible. Now, you wouldn't lie to us like this, would you?" She crooned in his ear.

"I...hfff...I'd have written my own epitaph if I wanted to lie..." He breathed, the pain becoming unbearable. "I found out about a major member of the Alliance's army escaping along with some turncoats, and...oof...opted to pursue..I did it under the pretense of rounding up soldiers who wouldn't surrender...and as fate would have it, I found you..."

"...Why do this? The Empress and her rat bastard of a right hand will likely brand you a traitor and have you executed. You were hardly subtle about leaving, you know..."

"I've had enough," Sylvain gasped, and his expression completely gave way to one of sorrow, sandy eyes becoming damp. "I saw what Count Bergliez and the rest of that lot did to Derdriu and Riegan once they fell...I saw the state of the towns surrounding Myrddin when it was taken too...and then there were the bribes, the torture, the weapons...d-did you know that the Empress is collaborating with the shady bastards responsible for Sir Jeralt's death? Lord Arundel's a part of their roster too, it's absolutely _insane_ what they're doing..." He sniffled, letting out a sound that reminded Ignatz of the hisses he'd let off when he'd get wounded. "The Empire doesn't care, I'm telling you. The people, _regular_ people, the commoners, poor, sick, they don't care at _all,_ and, just...I'm such a _fucking_ idiot..."

"...You are," Ignatz said simply, still staring at him. He wanted to waver and cry too, he truly did. But how could he? That sentimentality made him weak as a student... 

"I didn't even _like_ Edelgard either. I joined them again because of Byleth, at first. I thought, like a _fucking_ fool, that maybe she'd _do_ something about Edelgard's...I don't know, I don't -" He sniffed, completely overwhelmed. "Sounds absurd, banking on her, but Edelgard's practically _smitten_ with her. Fuck-all why though!" His arms flopped at his sides, and if he felt discomfort at Tamar's blade nicking his neck, he didn't show it. "But so much for all that! I just wanted all this bullshit with the Crests to _stop,_ and Edelgard did too, I _think..._ ugh!" The dirt found itself gripped in his fingers. "That's the problem: I didn't fucking _think!_ And that _bitch_ of a professor of ours didn't either, apparently! She's complacent with _all_ of it! It's...Goddess above, the more we fight, the less I believe that it's about those damn Crests...it's so much more than that...it really is..."

Tamar loosened her blade, but barely. It was a miraculous sight, but the experience she and Ignatz shared showed results: The man was being genuine. There was no mistaking it.

"I can't go back to Faerghus," Sylvain rasped, crying in earnest. "My old friends and my family would likely have me killed on sight. But I'm done playing general. I can't keep going on like this." He slumped. "I have no idea who the hell you're fighting for, but I'll get on my knees and lick the dirt off your boots if I have to if it means leaving the Empire. And yes, they'll happily punish turncoats. The Empress claiming otherwise is an absolute lie, just like their claims of letting those who surrender go."

"...You seem sincere enough," said Ignatz, voice devoid of emotion. "That's quite a feat for you."

"It is, isn't it?" Sylvain let out a wet laugh. "I've always been like that. Heh...I got so hung up over my Crest that I played dumb, trying to keep people away. I still hate it, don't get me wrong. But there will always be those who suffer more for far less...and that's what this new Empire's going to do should they come out on top, really."

When it was clear that Sylvain was too boneless and weepy to move at all, let alone retaliate, Tamar dropped her blade and stepped back. Neither she nor Ignatz said nothing, letting the mage knight weep and weep. In this place, at this hour, no one would dare interfere. 

_Most_ would not interfere...

Ignatz suddenly felt very, _very_ vulnerable, in more ways than one. His innocent, sixteen-year old self slipped past his mask, if only for a moment. Yet...

"H-Hey," Sylvain sniffled. "Have you ever thought of...well, joining forces with the Kingdom? I'm... _sniff..._ sure they'll be happy to have you..."

"Maybe," Ignatz said quietly and softly, face soft and sad. "We'd...get a leg up on power, no doubt. My people and the Kingdom share a cause, but..."

"But what?"

"Our values, what we seek...they're too different. Your church knights are a reason why," Tamar whispered, still tense. "It is not hate! Do not misunderstand. But...it isn't something we can easily explain. Especially out here."

"Hm...that's a shame." Sylvain sighed, feeling more steady. "Well then...know how the Alliance was once part of the Kingdom?" As if gripped by hope, he regained some energy. "There may be refugees of the Kingdom who'll be more than happy to join your cause, like me..."

"Hopefully, they won't become victims, should this double-pronged assault come to pass." Ignatz steeled himself once more. "The Empire plans to arrive there by the end of this month, I imagine?"

"If previous trends were correct, then yes..."

"...And the Empress is expecting turncoats to be found... _prisoners._ She wants you to find them and bring them to her..."

"Well, yeah, but...huh?"

"Sylvain," Ignatz stated slowly, deliberately. He shifted, wary of where the man was looking. "Is the Empress expecting results?"

"She is, but - "

"And, um, those refugees you mentioned...they know you personally? Would they actively seek you out...? Even if it put you or them in danger. Then the Empire would catch wind of it..."

"Ignatz, where are you - "

_**Snkt** _

Compared to Bernadetta? Much cleaner. Much, _much_ cleaner.

As Ignatz drove the stiletto further into Sylvain’s heart, his eyes bulged out of his skull, with only the faintest gasps echoing across the evening air. He gasped and gasped, angered at this seeming betrayal.

“Igna...wh...why...”

The blade was withdrawn, and his old classmate hit the cobblestones headfirst. It almost looked like a complete accident - perfect.

“With the story you gave to Edelgard, you'd be putting us all in danger,” Ignatz said, with Sylvain now at death’s door. “I wasn’t about to let you go.”

And it was not just enough that Sylvain saw them either, nor was it not just enough about the Empire possibly pursuing him for dawdling; he paid the price with a stab to the chest. His physique, courtesy of his skills as an equestrian and pikeman, was broad enough to draw attention to the wound. Thank heaven for the small mercy that was his head injury. The combined efforts of Ignatz and Tamar led the poor man into a dark alleyway that was narrow enough to hide the corpse. Hopefully if he were found, the death would be ruled as a head injury from a brawl, or perhaps a riding accident.

This was the second former classmate Ignatz had slain. Both within the same day, no less.

The wind became bitterly chilly. 

“...Is Raph waiting inside?” Ingatz whispered, feeling numb. Tamar nodded stiffly, and when Ignatz did not move, she took the initiative and guided him in by the hand.

He hoped with every fiber of his being that this rescue operation would succeed, because his belief in Claude and love for the continent were still strong. Just as plentiful as his love were the millions of questions he had the now fallen duke. 

Most of all, though, he hoped that once the mission succeeded, he could destroy memories of those he once knew, turn them faceless and unfamiliar. It would be less distressing that way.

“ _Please, Goddess, let this mission succeed. And please protect Claude, if he’s still alive...”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- A shashka blade has its origins in the Caucasus mountains, with Russia and Cossacks adopting it down the line.  
> \- Tamar has a Major Crest of Noa. Bear in mind that I had her concocted in my head for a long time, well before the Ashen Wolves DLC came to be.


End file.
